


A Whisper of Winter

by midgetmartian62



Series: The Seven [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Multi, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midgetmartian62/pseuds/midgetmartian62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been almost three hundred years since Aegon 'The Conqueror' sailed from Dragonstone and brought The Seven Kingdoms to heel with fire and blood. But, in this Westeros, there was no conquest and the name Targaryen means nothing here. The Seven Kingdoms are still truly seven kingdoms and seven crises loom over the continent, threatening to tear seven realms apart. Regardless of how many crowns there are or which heads they may sit upon, the Game of Thrones halts for no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Garth Gardener

**PROLOGUE**

Highgarden shone. A beautiful burning Sun stood high and proud above, bestowing its glorious bounty upon all who would deign to receive it. The golden roses which adorned the field stretched upwards, desperate to reach this benevolent God who would give them such welcome and ripe nectar. A cool breeze ensured that, despite the hot summer Sun, the day stayed cool and pleasant and no man could resist straying outside and lying down in the grass for an hour or two, without a care in the world. This is what Garth Gardener had come outside with the intention to do. 

Garth Gardener, King of The Reach and Twelfth of his Name, had seen many a summer like this come and go in his oh-so-long years on the Gods’ green earth. He would be ninety years old on his next name day, which most in the kingdom could scarcely believe. What others had heard of in only myth and legend, Garth Gardener had been alive to see. He was at the negotiation table when Osgood Arryn, not yet King of Mountain and Vale, had successfully mediated the peace terms for The Northern-Dornish War. He had actually known Lord Tygett Lannister quite well, before he and his son had been brutally cut down at The Battle of Nightsong. Garth had watched his brother, Merrill ‘The Would Have Been King’ fade away as he sat by his bedside, leaving the second-born of King Gyles VI as ruler. He had gained the nickname ‘Elderflower’ thanks to his long years, a name that he did not dislike. 

Garth had also repeated that painful ordeal with his Queen but he did not care to think of that. A day such as this did not allow dark thoughts such as those to rear their ugly heads for very long. The King may have been astonishingly old but he was able to walk by himself well enough with his cane in hand. The youngest two of his five daughters were always complaining how it took him ‘such an awful long time’ to get anywhere. Marlenna and Olenna were the only children of Garth’s to still live at Highgarden with their father, as they had simply never desired to be married as the others had. And Garth, having seen all of his other daughters leave, was more than happy for them to stay behind. They were both some twenty years past maiden age but still roamed the castle, pulling tricks on unsuspecting visitors and giggling incessantly. The water bucket on the top of the door was a favourite of theirs. Not so much for the Royal Guard. But, no matter how many soaking wet men came to complain and no matter how many times Garth told them to stop, they never listened. In truth, Garth was somewhat glad. Highgarden could get awfully boring, even with all the glorious days and Garth was grateful for some entertainment at least. 

Garth eventually made it outside and shooed away a man in uniform who attempted to escort him through the grounds. The heat felt good on his old bones and the grass was soft beneath his feet, the cane making a muted thud with every step. Garth made for the field of golden roses, one of his favourite spots in this kind of weather. When the light caught them just so, it seemed as if there were a thousand Suns, all rising to greet you and it never failed to take Garth’s breath away. As he entered the most beautiful section of the grounds, the sound of swordplay could be heard to the left. 

Garth rounded the corner to see Ser Dennis, a good man and honourable, sparring with another man in heavy-set steel armour, the crest of House Gardener emblazoned on the chest. Garth sat down on a nearby bench to rest and watch the two men for a little while. He had never been one for fighting himself, totally abhorring violence unless absolutely necessary and his years watching over the lands of The Reach had seen the kingdom become a non-combatant in any and all of the continent’s wars. Nevertheless, in his old age, Garth had begun to see the appeal in fighting as a sport, providing there was no bloodshed. Likely because it served to break the monotony that came with ruling over the most peaceful realm known to man. 

A minute or so went by before Ser Dennis finally realised that he was being watched and his being off-guard allowed the other man to trip him up and press a wooden sword to his neck.

“My apologies, Ser Dennis!” Garth called out with a wry smile. “I did not mean to distract you, truly.”

“Oh, there’s no need, Your Grace.” Ser Dennis replied as he was helped up the other man. “I would likely have lost, regardless. The Sun only serves to make my sparring partner even more brutal it seems.” 

“It’s not my fault if you can’t guard your legs, probably. In a real fight, the enemy isn’t going to play by your rules.” came the muffled reply, as two large hands came up to remove the helmet. The man underneath was not yet an old man, yet far from a young one, and his winning smile was just as likely to disarm someone as his sword was. This was Ser Lommen Flowers, bastard and only son of Garth Gardener. Forty years ago, a visit to Dorne had resulted in a boy too dark of skin to pass off as a trueborn Reachman but Garth had taken the child in regardless, for better or for worse. 

“What did you think, father?” Lommen grinned, as he and Ser Dennis came over and sat next to their King. “Olenna says that I have the fighting prowess of a great Hero of old. I rather fancy myself as the next Garth Goldenhand.” 

“Garth Goldenhand saw only bloodshed as a means to achieve peace. Had he sat down and spoken to Ferris Fowler instead of simply marching against him, countless lives need not have been thrown away.” The Reach had always revered The Goldenhand, bordering on worshipping, but Garth had never understood exactly why. Any man who drew his sword before every other option was exhausted was not worthy of sitting on the Oakenseat, or any other throne. “I may just be a senile old King who does nothing but stroll the gardens from dawn until dusk, but I have fostered peace without ever needing to raise a single blade to keep it.” 

Neither of the Knights cared to respond, leaving an awkward gap in the conversation and Garth very satisfied that he had made his point. Off in the distance, the faint melody of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ drifted over the hedgerows. It was eventually Lommen who broke the somewhat silence. “Dennis, do you think that you could give me and my father a moment alone?”

“Certainly. Your Grace.” Ser Dennis stood and bowed quickly, before taking his leave. Lommen watched him go, whilst Garth crooned his head upwards into the sunshine, feeling his cheeks becoming pleasantly warmer. The moment that the other knight was out of earshot, Lommen began. 

“Speaking of war, I hear that Ravessa Hoare has sent another raven requesting an alliance against The Stormlands, should they decide to finish what they started.” Tales would be told for centuries of how Harrenhal was seized by the Storm Queen Arlanna Durrandon in just over an hour. ‘The Blackwater Conquest’, they had called the war between The Stormlands and The Kingdom of the Isles and the Rivers. Or perhaps war was the wrong word. A war implied that both sides had put up a fair fight. Arlanna Durrandon had earned the nickname ‘Hurricane’ for a reason. 

“No.” Garth replied bluntly, without even opening his eyes. “I will not become involved in their wars, especially not on the side of the Ironborn.” Needless to say that Garth had never much agreed with the Islander concept of ‘paying the iron price’. Othgar Hoare was far too gentle of a King for those barbarians. 

Garth heard Lommen sigh, clearly irritated. His son was a good man but far too eager to send the kingdom hurtling into warfare. The knight went on, “I understand that, father, but many say that once the Storm Queen has taken the rest of the Islander Kingdom, she will focus her efforts on The Reach.” 

“Then, we shall negotiate with her and reach a bloodless peace, whatever the cost. And if she refuses all other avenues, then and only then shall we engage her.” Garth recited in a monotone, as it was a sentiment that he had expressed to many before. The master-at-arms was perhaps the only man in The Reach more bored than Garth Gardener, constantly grumbling that he had nothing to but sit on his arse and sharpen swords all day long. 

“By then, it will be too late.” 

“You underestimate our armies.”

“They have not seen battle since you were a newborn babe! I have watched your soldiers in the training grounds. Some of them can barely even hold a sword, let alone use it to wound, to kill. If the Stormlands marches on Highgarden, it will fall. It’s inevitable.” 

Garth opened his eyes and turned towards his son. He had his mother’s glorious blue eyes, which was one of many features that marked him out as different from his half-sisters. Garth feared to look at him for too long, lest he begin to relive his trip to Dorne. He had never been back there for forty years. How could he? 

“Nothing is inevitable, Lommen.” Garth began, slowly, choosing his words carefully. “When I told my castellan, a good man but headstrong, when I told him about you, he told me to cut your mother’s throat with you still inside her.” He was unable to hold eye contact for any longer and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I told him I would do no such thing, that I had a responsibility to that baby and its mother. So, when I brought this woman to Highgarden, he tried to go behind my back, bribed a guardsman to kill her in the middle of the night.” He paused again as a cool breeze whipped through the gardens, stirring the flowers. “Did you know that it was your eldest sister who saved your life?” 

Lommen coughed in an attempt to cover his surprise. The eldest daughter of Garth Gardener and heir to The Reach, Margaery, had never held much love for her bastard brother, and Garth was not blind to this. She had always been the hardest of the Gardener daughters, very uneager to compromise or show weakness, even strong-arming her husband into a matrilineal marriage in order to keep her Gardener name. Garth had heard some of the whisperings of The Reach, despite most thinking he was too old to take part in the intrigue of the local lords and ladies. Many were saying that Ser Lommen would be a better ruler than Princess Margaery and some even thought that Garth would legitimise Lommen on his deathbed, leaving him as King. The current King in the North, Rickard Stark, had been made heir in exactly this way via his father and those who dared still called him ‘The Bastard King’. 

“No.” Lommen finally answered after taking a while to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t.” 

“All of mankind has the capacity for love, for kindness, even if some are often wrongly denounced as being exceptions to this. Remember that when you are tearing open a man’s belly on the battlefield because someone in a crown wanted to take his home from him for no good reason.” Garth rose from the bench, his old bones making the rise more arduous than it should have been. “I am tired. Tell Olenna and Marlenna to begin supper without me, I am going to lie down in my chambers.”  
“Yes, father.” Lommen replied before turning and leaving. _He walks with such a broad step,_ Garth thought to himself as he watched his son go. _And carries the broad shoulders that I once did. A Knight if I ever saw one._

Garth stood still for a time, as if something otherworldly were willing him to stay for just a little longer, begging him to drink the sun’s rays while he still could. Eventually, Garth Gardener defied whatever kept him there and turned to slowly shuffle to his bed. Had he known it would be the last time he would make the journey, perhaps he would have waited there a little longer. 

When the maester came to wake him some hours later, he found Garth already in the long sleep, eyes forever shut to the Sun. The bells cried out across The Reach in mourning, weeping for the Elderflower. _The King is dead! Long live Queen Margaery, First of Her Name!_


	2. Mordenna I

Mordenna had never liked Harrenhal. She could still remember when her family had lived at Storm's End, her mornings often spent looking out over Shipbreaker Bay from her bedroom window, watching the waves break against the mighty walls of the castle. There had been a certain tranquillity to the constant storms, an assurance that nothing could hurt Mordenna while she stood inside the impenetrable home of the Durrandons. Not so in Harrenhal. 

The youngest child of Storm Queen Arlanna 'Hurricane' Durrandon always felt like she didn't belong here. This castle did not feel like her home, it had been stolen from the Islanders at swordpoint at the end of The Blackwater Conquest. She had been just thirteen years old when her mother and older sister, Ericha, had returned to Storm's End victorious, greeted by cheering and night-long revelry. A week later, she had announced that the Kingdom of the Stormlands would be moving their royal seat to Harrenhal. Another thirteen years had passed since they had passed under the looming towers of Harren The Black's gargantuan hold. For thirteen years, she had longed to return to where she belonged, to where she had grown up. But, whenever she brought it up, her mother would yell at her, as she always did, and Ericha would likely join in, as _she_ always did. They were too much like each other for Mordenna's own good. 

The only solace came from her brother, Dickon. Since birth, he had been her guardian against the sadistic onslaughts of Ericha, who was well aware of how much larger she was than her siblings and delighted in torturing them in more ways than one. During The Blackwater Conquest, she had kept the sister to The King of The Isles and The Rivers, as her own personal entertainment. The things that Ericha 'Little Storm' had done to Ravessa Hoare were only spoken of in hushed whispers around The Seven Kingdoms, as if merely to speak of them was an affront to the Gods themselves. Mordenna knew it was an evil thing to do but she prayed every day for her mother's quick and untimely death, so that Dickon may become Storm King and banish Ericha from the realm, as he had promised to do the moment he sat on the throne. Mordenna had also made him swear to move the Stormlander seat back to where it belonged, a prospect that thrilled her to no end. But, for now, Mordenna knew to keep quiet until the time was right. 

The girl often took walks around the castle during the day, as her mother could not even be bothered to assign guards to look after the youngest daughter and there was nothing much else to do. The Storm Queen was ruthlessly pragmatic and Mordenna had never proved her value to her mother. Arlanna had not even bothered to find a suitor for her daughter as she had for the other two, such was her supposed irrelevance. It was on one of these, just as Mordenna was beginning to get lost in high halls and long corridors that she saw Dickon staring out of a nearby window. 

"It's a nice day, is it not?" Arlanna smiled as she approached. Dickon looked up and returned it, before turning back. 

"They're saying that it is the hottest summer that any have ever seen. Which means that the coming winter will be the darkest and coldest that any have ever known. The Starks must be jumping for joy. Finally, their house words actually mean something."

"Have you met our mother? 'Ours Is The Fury' seems _very_ appropriate." Dickon laughed and she laughed too. "Where is Alysanne? Surely, you should be spending this glorious day with your equally glorious wife, dear brother." 

"Ha, ha." Dickon replied in a monotone, followed by an aggravated sigh. The eldest daughter of Wandworth Tarth had been introduced to Dickon the day before they were wed and he liked her just as much know as ten years ago. Mordenna had attended the ceremony, clad in the finest dress she had been able to bring from Storm's End. She had often seen first hand the way Dickon looked at his wife and it was nothing compared to the way he looked at his little sister. For Alysanne Tarth, there was no sparkle, no wide-eyed affection. For Mordenna, he looked at her like he would move the heavens just to see her smile. 

"She's in her chambers, complaining about how fat her belly is getting." he went on, his voice low and growling. "She sent me to go and get her grapes and I've been wandering through the corridors for the past half hour. Where the fuck am I going to get _grapes_ in this place? I think I saw one of the dogs hang itself out of sheer depression yesterday." Mordenna laughed again. Alysanne was due to give birth to the future Storm King soon. Mordenna had to admit that she was a pretty face, although not much else. The woman was superficial to say the least, rarely caring much about much beyond whether her dress went with her eyes. Not unkind or unpleasant, just annoying. 

"Perhaps she will have a daughter just like her. Then you will have two Alysanne's to keep you company."

"Don't remind me." Dickon reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to his sister. "This arrived before sunrise. Perhaps they are right about this winter being the darkest ever." 

Mordenna unfolded the piece of paper and read it aloud. "To all the noble Kings and Queens of Westeros, a tragedy has struck us all. Garth Gardener, Twelfth of his Name, King of the Reach and Lord of Highgarden has returned to The Gods after a long and prosperous eighty nine years. We invite all of the venerable houses of Westeros to mourn his passing at Highgarden, as well as witness the coronation of Queen Margaery, long may she reign." 

"It seems that The Elderflower has wilted at long last." Dickon remarked when she had finished. "You know, we went to Highgarden once, although I think you would have been too young to remember. It was when Grandfather was still Storm King." Argilac 'The Weary', they had called him. He never married again after his wife died in childbirth and Mordenna had never seen him outside the confines of Storm's End. He did indeed seem to be almost constantly weary and, when one was in the room with him, it was anyone's guess whether he was actually aware of anything going on around him. 

"It was raining and you cried because we weren't allowed to go out in the gardens. I thought I would have to spend the whole week stopping Ericha from hitting you to shut you up." A smile danced on his face. Someone yelled out in the courtyard below and another yelled back. "But Garth Gardener himself took you from me and kept you entertained the entire time with stories and songs and toys that his daughters used to play with. You had a smile on your face whenever you were with him and he did too. Then, of course, you cried when he had to leave."

Mordenna let a comfortable silence hang in the air and she suddenly found herself quite sad at The Elderflower's passing. It had been a nice thought that someone apart from her brother had truly cared for her, if only for a little while. The people who paid attention to Mordenna, it seemed, were either her brother, her sadistic sister or dead. 

Dickon reluctantly moved away from the window, scratching his chin as he did so. "I had best return to my darling wife before she comes looking for me. Not that she could find me in this place." His words spit poison at Harrenhal and Mordenna was happy to hear it. Dickon placed both hands on her shoulder, looking her straight in the eye. "I have not forgotten my promise. When I am King, the both of us shall see Storm's End again, whether Ericha likes it or not." He placed a kiss on her forehead before turning and leaving. 

Mordenna went to the window, gazing out across the courtyard. Even in sunshine, Harrenhal looked bleak and dead. Below, Ericha was beating a training dummy with far more force than was necessary, her sword threatening to behead the poor thing. Her raven black hair was tied in a ponytail, swinging wildly every time she swung the blade. Had she been the daughter of any other royal family, she would be inside studying how to land a husband. She had been married once, in fact, to a weakling lord, Preston Swann. The union had lasted a year before Preston supposedly fell of his horse and cracked his head open. Ericha was more than pleased to return to Harrenhal and many say that she had a hand in her husband's death. Mordenna wouldn't put it past her. When she was eight and Mordenna was twelve, she had set her pet rat on fire with a candle and forced her younger sister to watch as it burnt in her palm. The whole time, she had been eerily calm as she watched it go up in flames, even as it screamed and wriggled in her hand. Mordenna had not kept any pets since. 

Placing Garth Gardener's obituary on the windowsill, Mordenna came away from the window and walked off down the corridor to pack for Highgarden, daydreaming of the day when she could be the one to execute her sister. 

 

 


	3. Jon I

"The people are starving, Your Grace. The yield of this harvest has been the poorest in living memory and we do not have the coin to help them. There is even talk of a mass revolt from the peasantry." Lord Beor Mormont was a hard man, who growled every sentence as if whoever he spoke to had just murdered his wife in front of him. His shoulders were broad and his hair thick and coarse. Even in his old age, he had not lost it and great locks of white stretched down to his shoulders and his beard touched his chest. He was a valiant soldier and, though the North had lost their war with Dorne, Beor had killed more than a hundred of their soldiers single-handed before he was captured. 

But as much as Beor knew of combat, he knew almost nothing of gold. His appointment to the office of Master of Coin for The North was purely political, meant to endear his family to the King. There was little love to be found for Rickard Stark these days. He was known as 'The Bastard King' amongst the lords of his kingdom in more ways than one. The only man more disliked in recent years had been his father, Benjen 'The Unready', the man who had cleaned out the North's coffers to spend on expensive wars and unnecessary luxuries, almost constantly drunk as he did so. Rickard had been legitimised on the old King's deathbed, only ten years old at the time and many had hoped that he would be able to bring The North to its former glory once more. He had not. 

"Then what would you suggest we do, Lord Mormont?" Rickard replied. It did not help matters that he was the smallest sitting at the council table by far, in both stature and voice. The King in the North looked like he should be serving in the kitchens, not ruling over the lands of The First Men. The crown upon his head looked almost comically large, sat on the head of a boy who was barely twenty one. 

Beor leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, blue eyes staring straight at his King. "We need to post extra men in the countryside to suppress the populace, execute the ringleaders if need be. The people need to see that their King still has power. There is few things that men fear more than the cold embrace of steel." 

Jon sat up in his chair, both arms folded. "I believe the King asked you what could be done about the state of our _economy_ , Lord Mormont. If he wants advice on how to rally an army to kill every man, woman and child who dares to be poor in the kingdom, my father is the master at arms." Unlike most of his family and men of the North, Jon Stark had never been one to sit and grumble with a sour-faced expression on his face. He was famous in Winterfell for never taking anything seriously and it caused many, especially his sister, irritation to no end. It brought him nothing but joy, however.

Beor Mormont turned his gaze on Jon, beard quivering as he attempted to contain his rage. "And I suppose if he desires snide remarks, he comes to his Spymaster, Lord Stark?"

"That is one of the many services I provide, yes." Jon grinned in reply, delighting at seeing Beor's face become redder and redder by the second. In reality, Jon knew little more of how to be a Spymaster than Mormont did about being a Master of Coin. Jon had known King Rickard, his half-cousin, since he was four and was one of the few friends that Benjen's bastard still had. Jon's appointment to the council had, again, been entirely regardless of skill and did not even serve to try and gather support from a rapidly dwindling supply of the Crown's allies. Despite years of learning how to be a King while Brandon Stark stood guard as regent, none of it seemed to have rubbed off on Rickard and Jon worried for his friend. Many still said that Benjen Stark had not been 'ill' in his final days but poisoned. Jon did not doubt the likelihood of The Bastard King going the same way. 

"Enough." declared Brandon Stark, voice booming through the council chambers. Jon's father gave the initial impression of being cold and hard but those who knew him well knew him as a kind man, someone who would go out of his way to help any in need. The appointment to the post of Master At Arms had also been because he was close to the King but at least Brandon knew what he was doing. His six year rule as regent during Rickard's minority was the most stable the North had been for a quarter of a century and most now believed that Prince Brandon Stark, brother to Benjen 'The Unready' deserved the throne, none more so his wife and Jon's mother, Barbenna. 

"We get absolutely nowhere through bickering." Brandon continued. "What we need, now more than ever, is unity." 

"Here, here!" cried Maester Osmond. Senile and useless, a winning combination. He was promptly ignored.

"If I may advise on the behalf of the Master of Coin for a moment..." The Master At Arms was interrupted by the Master of Coin shooting out of his seat to glare across the table, teeth bared like a wolf ready to pounce. 

"How dare you! I will not--!"

"Beor. Shut up and sit down." Ruth Reed interrupted in turn and, as always, in monotone. She was on the council as Chancellor both to appease her family and because she was likely to be Rickard's betrothed one day. She was about ten years older than her future husband and Jon had never seen her smile or get angry or show any emotion whatsoever. She rarely ever spoke and, if she did, it was often to tell people to shut up. Somehow, it usually worked and Beor sat down without another word. Brandon nodded a thank you before speaking again. 

"I would council that our only option is to stretch the rations even further. Any scraps that we have left over, any food that we do not intend to eat immediately, should go to the peasants."

"Here, here!" 

"Thank you, Maester Osmund." Rickard said. "Uncle, the stores are stretched far enough as it is. We are surviving on bread and water as it is."

_And meat. And fruit. And lots of wine._ Jon thought to himself, not daring to voice his opinion. Rickard was nice and truly good but he was far too naive for his own good. 

"They have to stretch further or we will find an army of common folk breaking down our door before too long." 

Beor Mormont could keep his silence for no longer and retorted, "I cut down a hundred trained soldiers at Nightsong, Lannister and Martell alike, while King Benjen was passed out drunk in his tent. Do you really think a handful of fucking peasants could challenge us?" 

"I was at Nightsong too, my lord, and we lost that battle quite badly, as I recall." Brandon replied, his voice becoming low and eerily calm. Jon had been berated enough times by his father to know that that was not a good sign. "And you will not speak ill of my brother, your King. That is borderline treason, Lord Beor."

Seeing that Rickard wasn't going to intervene any time soon, Jon took the initiative and stood up to speak. "I am sure that the King will take the matter under advisement, as he should do. Won't you, Your Grace?" Jon looked at Rickard, who simply nodded, not even bothering to meet anyone's gaze. "Very well, then." Jon sat down. "Is there any other business before we ajourn?" 

"Garth Gardener is dead. A funeral invitation arrived this morning." Lady Reed grunted in the same tone that she always did. 

"A shame. The Elderflower was a good man. The kindest in all The Seven Kingdoms." Brandon contributed. Beor let out a low murmur of agreement. Jon knew that it was mostly just to fill the silence. His father had maybe met Garth all of twice, although the King of the Reach's incorruptible reputation was known throughout Westeros. Jon would have liked to met him, if only for a short while. He sounded nice. "He will be missed." 

"The funeral is in Highgarden?" Rickard asked, and Ruth nodded. "Send a raven informing them that I will be in attendance, along with my uncle. Lady Reed, as Chancellor, you will rule in my stead until we return." Ruth nodded again. Rickard stood up to end the meeting and everyone else followed. "Thank you, everyone. This meeting is adjourned. The next shall be when I return." 

The members of the council all filed out of the room, with Jon at the front of the procession. When he opened the doors, he was met with the face of his younger sister, who quickly jumped back to let the others pass. Jon waited until they had all gone to begin his delightful onslaught. 

"Listening at the door where we, dear sister?" Jon began, his trademark smirk already putting in an appearance. "That's not very ladylike of you."

"Fuck off, Jon." Beth Stark snapped, marching off down the corridor. Beth was every inch her mother's daughter. Easily irritated, an almost permanent scowl on her features and an insatiable desire to know of every single going on at court. "Why are you following me?"

"Winterfell is a very dangerous place, my beloved sibling. A fair maiden such as yourself should have an escort in such darkened and cold halls, don't you agree?" She did not answer but quickened her stride. Jon easily copied her. "You must be simply freezing in that dress. That paricular fabric would seem more at place in somewhere like..." ,

Beth stopped suddenly, causing Jon to nearly crash into her, and whirled around, white hot with rage. "If you say Dorne to me again, I will rip off your fucking hand, shove it up your arse and work you like a sock puppet." 

"Such unladylike language! Is this a sore subject for you?" Dorne had been a favourite teasing point of Jon's towards his sister for the last eighteen years. One of the terms of the treaty that ended the North's disastrous campaign against the Martells was Beth's immediate betrothal to Trystane, eldest son of Prince Quentyn Martell. The boy was renowned as an insufferable arse and Jon thanked the Gods every day that he had been present for the happy couple's one and only meeting. It had been so awkward that Jon had done extremely well not to die of laughter. 

Beth did not have a response for her brother, so she simply turned around and kept walking. Jon, naturally, followed her. "So, what will you call the child that you bear for Trystane? They have such strange names in the North. We have Beth, Jon, Robb. They have Trystane, Oberyn, Martyne. It's just rather unnecessary, isn't it? And you'll be a Princess twice now. Not as good as a Queen though." 

Beth reached her chamber door and turned to face her brother once more, hand on the wood behind her. "You forget _dear brother_ that I will also be Queen of the Rock once Jeyne Lannister finally does us all a favour and dies." The complexities of the reason why Trystane Martell stood to inherit both Dorne and The Kingdom of The Rock were lost on Jon. His father had tried to explain it to him once but he hadn't listened. He wasn't listening _now_. "Then I will possess the largest army in all The Seven Kingdoms." 

"Trystane Martell will possess the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms."

"And who do you think will be whispering in his ear, telling him where to send all those men?" She opened the door and stepped inside. "One flash of my cunt and I might as well lead the army myself."

With one last look at her brother, Beth Stark shut her door to the world. Jon stood there for a while, attempting to think of something witty to say, but found that he couldn't be bothered to make the effort. He walked off down the corridor, wondering if Rickard would want to go for a walk with him before the funeral tomorrow.


End file.
